


A Christmas Intervention

by SophB_Holmes



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Christmas Eve, Crossover, Ghosts of Christmas, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophB_Holmes/pseuds/SophB_Holmes
Summary: A re-telling of a classic Christmas tale. Sherlock is all alone at Christmas which is fine, he hates Christmas. But he can't work out why he feels so sad! Cue three visitations that show him what he's missing.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19
Collections: Festive Johnlock Collection





	1. An Unexpected Visitor

Sherlock looked through the mess that was his sock index. Why did they honestly think he'd keep his stash tucked away with his socks? Did they think him so lacking in any imagination? No. His stash was hidden far more securely than that. He doubted even Hudders would be able to find it and she could give the sniffer dogs at the airport a run for their money. As he sorted through the desolation, refolding and organising his socks by colour (to the exact shade of black), softness, length, toe seam ridge and material, he cursed himself once again falling for the old cigarette trick. Mycroft had got him with that one before. He could only put it down to shock at supposedly seeing The Woman's body, cold and dead on the slab just after she had sent him her most prized possession for safe keeping. 

No, it wasn't a danger night, it was a night for thinking. She would be back. He knew that much. Why send him her phone to look after if not? Anyway, she was of little consequence at the moment. He had the phone again and now, it was time to see exactly what she was hiding. The only problem was that the infernal thing was locked and he was sure she'd have planted something nasty inside just in case it fell into the wrong hands. For all she knew, maybe it had. 

There was, however, one potential benefit of this situation. Maybe it would mean John would change his plans. The boring teacher had apparently left in a snit earlier and had likely once again made some nark about John and Sherlock being perfect for one another. Probably all her friends had warned her off John because of his mad flatmate. Oh well, she was just another one of John's girlfriends that he had accidentally-on-purpose run-off by being himself. Well, maybe himself plus a bit extra. Sherlock had been raised as pretty much an only child with Mycroft being so much older. He had never learned to share his things and John was his most definitely. If only he could see it and stop trying to find someone else to try and squeeze into their already full and satisfying life. Well, that's how Sherlock saw it anyway.

He hadn't enjoyed having people around for Christmas drinks but John had insisted, as had Mrs Hudson. She had sneaked in one afternoon while they were out on a case and decorated the flat with tinsel and fairy lights and nothing but the look of happiness on John's face had stopped him from ripping them down. He was getting soft. That needed to stop. Immediately. Mycroft would start to notice and tell Mummy and then everything would be worse because she would start to think he was open to visits and affection and things. That was more than a bit not good.

He hated Christmas. Loathed it. It was a depressing time of year. All the criminal classes were tucked up with their families pretending to be nice people. Murders were relegated to domestics gone too far. Theft was downgraded to the petty pilfering of Christmas gifts rather than priceless art or jewels. It was always far too quiet. Winter in general was bad, well in Sherlock's mind anyway. Everyone seemed to want to stay inside when the weather got cold. With a sigh, he put the last of his socks away and closed the drawer with a bit of a thud.

Christmas had gradually lost its lustre as the years went by. Decreasing by slow increments ever since he deduced that Santa wasn't real and that it was Daddy who was eating the mince pie and quaffing the sherry Sherlock had so carefully laid out each Christmas Eve. That and the fact that Fatcroft kept making snide comments as Sherlock wrote out his letter every year, diligently posting it in the special box in the village shop. When the magic was finally blasted away, so was the innocent joy Sherlock had once had at Christmas. Now he simply hated everything about it. This year was looking like it was going to be worse than ever.

For tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Mrs Hudson would be off to her sister's for the week leaving a pile of mince pies for Sherlock to live off while she was away. Mycroft would go to their parent's in the morning (it was his turn this year having owed Sherlock a favour for some legwork he had done during the summer) so he couldn't even see his brother. Not that anything but sheer desperation would induce him to seek out that particular form of torture. The morgue would be closed and everyone of interest at The Yard would also be spending time with their families even though he had no idea why Lestrade would want to spend time with his wife. Not now he knew that she was sleeping with the PE teacher. Again. 

The worst thing about this year was that he would be all alone. John had decided to try and reconcile with Harriet, his alcoholic sister, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel like he was being abandoned. He had deduced that Harry had fallen off the wagon again and that John would be disappointed by the visit. He had told John all about his deductions in the hope that he might call off the visit and stay to keep Sherlock company. After all, what do they say about misery? But no. John was adamant that she was starting afresh and he was willing to put the effort in for her much to Sherlock's displeasure. He had even tried to use his recovery as a recreational drug user (read IV heroin and cocaine addict) as a reason for John to stay but he simply had looked at Sherlock and walked away. It was hopeless! 

Unless John was now too worried to let Sherlock out of his sights. After all, they had decided tonight was a Danger Night. Maybe he should play it up a bit, disappear out for an undisclosed visit to someone. Mycroft would follow him on the CCTV and would ring John and then he wouldn't be able to go to Harry's and all would be well. Could he get away with it? 

"Sherlock?" Well, there was only one way to find out. 

"John." He walked out his bedroom and straight to the coat rack to grab his coat and scarf only to find them missing. He turned to look at the other man, suspicion rising. "Where?"

"Hidden. I know what you're thinking."

"Really? Well, there's a first time for everything I suppose." He rolled his eyes and stalked over to his violin. 

"Berk. I know you're thinking that if you go for a wander, I'll think you're off to score drugs and I won't go to Harry's for Christmas."

Shit. When had he gotten so good at reading my thoughts? 

"John! How could you possibly think I would do something like that."

"Because you're a total cock and you've been whinging about me going to my sister's for Christmas for weeks now. Don't tell me you wouldn't try something underhand to make me stay."

Damn. He really did know. 

"Why don't you go with Mycroft, to your parent's?" Sherlock whirled round to face John, a look of abject horror on his face. 

"How could you even suggest such a thing?!"

"How bad could it be? I've never met your mum and dad but at least you've got some to go visit." The look of outrage (completely put on, of course, he didn't actually mind his parents. Quite liked them really when they were behaving themselves) on Sherlock's face intensified. "Fine. But I'm still going to see my sister and that's that. I know you've had bad news but..." Sherlock didn't let him finish, he just lay his violin down on the desk and stormed to his bedroom, slamming the door in mock outrage. 

Well, that didn't go according to plan. 

\--

The following morning, John packed his bag and departed early to get the train to Harriet's. She lived in Chelmsford so he took a cab to the station and that was that. He left with assurances that he would return on Boxing Day and that Sherlock was not to do any experiments that would require his immediate return from his sister's. Sherlock once again frowned as yet another plot was foiled. He sat at the kitchen table, allowing the silence of the flat, the entire house in fact, to become deafening. There was nothing to do. No one to talk to. He was back to it being just him and Billy the skull once again. 

"I hate Christmas."

He moped around in his pyjamas and dressing gown, unable to settle anywhere or into any activity for long at all. He tried texting Lestrade for a case but was told to 'piss off'. Apparently, he was 'on holiday from babysitting the consulting detective'. He tried to resist texting John knowing that it would annoy his flatmate. He was even starting to wonder whether he actually should have gone with Mycroft but quickly shut down that line of thought, throwing himself onto the sofa in a huff. 

The day passed slowly, drearily, never-endingly. He went up to John's room to find his gun only to discover a note attached to the box threatening violence if it was even opened. He ignored the note and took out the weapon only to find that the firing mechanism had a key element missing along with another note. 'I have the hammer. Knew I couldn't trust you. Git." Sherlock placed the gun and the note back in the case and locked them away again. 

Making his way downstairs in the dark, the light having faded long since in the winter gloom, he heard a noise from the kitchen. Half of him hoped it was John, the other half hoped for an intruder to liven up the day. He crept down the last few steps, avoiding the ones that creaked, and sneaked around to the kitchen door. It was already partially open, allowing him to see a sliver of the light that was pouring from the room. Well I didn't turn the light on. He glimpsed through the crack wishing that he had John's gun even if just as a deterrent to anyone with an idea of causing him some damage. When the person inside started to sing to himself, Sherlock froze in shock. 

Recovering himself, he pushed the door open fully to reveal a man rummaging through the cupboards. He was wearing a flowery dress in tones of yellow and orange. It swirled around as he opened doors and looked through the contents, still happily singing to himself. 

"Uncle Rudy?" The man stopped singing and whirled around to meet the confused and shocked expression of his nephew. 

"Sherlock! My boy! How are you?" The younger man just stood staring, completely unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "Oh, don't look like that! I've come to pay my second favourite nephew a visit at Christmas!"

"B..b...but... you're.... dead!" Rudy laughed, a full belly laugh that echoed around the room quite unnaturally. 

"So what? When have I ever done anything as dull as conventional?" He laughed again. Sherlock just stood there agape. "Sit down, sit down." Sherlock did as he was told and pulled out a dining chair, dropping heavily onto it not once taking his eyes off his uncle who looked just as he had the last time he'd seen him. An older, balder, more ginger, version of Mycroft. Not that his brother would thank him for the comparison.

"Wha...how...why?"

"I'm sure you were more articulate than that when you were three! Come on, boy, spit it out? What? Well, I am a ghost. The energy left behind by my corporeal form when I passed. How? Well, that links to why. I've been sent to deliver a message to you."

"A message? For me?" Sherlock shook his head and quickly pulled up his sleeves, not entirely sure that he hadn't been shooting up and just couldn't remember administering the drugs. 

"No, you're not stoned. Makes a change actually. I'm sure you've spent a few Christmases off your tits in some doss house. Leaving your poor brother to drag you out before you choked on your own vomit." Rudy shot him a disappointed look, shaking his head at Sherlock's past behaviour. "No, I have some wrongs to right and one of those is to do with you." 

"Me?"

"Are you just going to keep repeating select words of one syllable? Honestly, you're meant to be a genius! Surely you can accept something as mundane as a ghost." Rudy laughed again but stopped when he saw that Sherlock was starting to look increasingly pale. "Well, anyway. Yes. I did something a few years ago which, unfortunately, has had a rather negative impact on your life. I am here to tell you that tonight, we're going to put it right." 

"We?" At Rudy's annoyed look, Sherlock shook himself together. "Sorry. Who is we? What did you do and why is it having a negative effect on me?" 

"Better. I knew you had it in you, boy. Well, it's more something I did to Mycroft and he passed it on. But unfortunately, your wiring" at this he gestured to Sherlock's head, "interpreted it in a very literal way. Mycroft has nothing to worry about, he was always the smartest of you both, but you? Well, you, my boy, are a different matter." Rudy walked over to Sherlock, passing through one of the other dining chairs, to stand right in front of him. "You are going to be visited by three of my colleagues. The first will call at midnight then it will be one every two hours. We used to rush it through every hour but the powers that be decided, after looking at the data, that it might be better to give you a bit of a rest between each visitation." Sherlock was rarely confused so this feeling was most unwelcome and highly disturbing. 

"Why can't you just tell me what they're going to say? It doesn't sound very efficient. Four spirits for one man?" 

"Oh, don't get me started on the efficiency quotas. It's a restructuring nightmare! Redundancies in the spirit world is a very taboo subject in that there's literally nothing else to do. Well, there's reincarnation but most people have done with life once they've suffered through it once. Anyway, that's beside the point. I can't tell you the message because I buggered it up before so I'm just here to prepare you."

"What did you do?" 

"Well, I made a few bad decisions regarding you and your siblings." At the plural, Sherlock looked up, intrigued. "Oops! And that is why I'm only here to warn you. About to bugger this up as well if I'm not careful. My line manager will not be pleased at all. Not used to having a line manager. Used to being the top rung but give me time. I've only been dead ten years." Rudy chuckled to himself. "Right then. I recommend getting some sleep. You won't have much chance after midnight. These events can be a bit draining and if it all goes according to plan, you'll need some energy for what tomorrow should hopefully bring." Sherlock didn't move. He just sat there still staring in disbelief. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! Just bugger off to bed!" 

And with a flash of blinding light Rudy disappeared leaving a stunned detective sitting on a dining chair in the middle of a deserted kitchen. Only the scent of Rudy's perfume remained. Clair de lune. 


	2. The Ghost of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives his first of three scheduled visitations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - implied and referenced drug use.

There was no clock striking or, in fact, any noise other than the damned alarm Sherlock had set for five to midnight. He had tried to sleep, following the advice given by the ghostly apparition of his uncle Rudy. But by the time he had shaken himself together after the encounter, it was after ten and the flat was cold and still in darkness. He stood and walked to the fire, lighting it and sat in his armchair in front of the flames. It was completely unbelievable. He once again checked for recent track marks on his arms. He performed a systems check to see if he was under the influence of any form of drug that might have been slipped into something he ate. Except he hadn't eaten anything since a mince pie around noon. Maybe that was it, low blood glucose. Better have another mince pie to make sure. But no, as he was eating the pastry, he knew that wasn't right either. 

No possible explanation he came up with fit and invariably left more questions than each theory answered. He was tempted to message his brother to ask him about any strange behaviour ever shown by their uncle (other than his predilection for wearing very summery dresses in the middle of a London winter) but he feared that this might cause Mycroft to march him off for evaluation. John would see it as merely a ploy to get him home early. No, there was no one to talk to and nothing to explain it all fully. He was alone and stumped. 

He closed his eyes and snuggled under the blanket John had brought home one day. It smelt of him and Sherlock found it comforting although he couldn't quite explain why. Maybe it was simply a sense of normality after such an unsettling event. There was no other reason for him to feel slightly less disturbed when cocooned in the scents of his friend, was there? He didn't sleep, he just dozed on and off, making brief trips into his mind palace to see if he couldn't come up with some other ideas to explain the experiences of the evening. He wasn't convinced at all that it had been real and by the time midnight was virtually upon him, he'd pretty much convinced himself that nothing at all was going to happen. 

So when he watched the digital display on his phone change to 00:00, he nearly leapt out of his skin when the room filled with light and the apparition of a Victorian street urchin appeared. For a moment, Sherlock and the spirit just sat staring at each other, not entirely sure what to do or say. It was Sherlock who broke the silence. 

"Hello?" He berated himself for sounding less than confident, his usual, commanding tone deserting him.

"Oh, you can see me! Great. Hello." The young boy smiled and sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock's. "My name is Archie. I'm the Previous Experiences Consultant." 

"Sorry, what? Aren't you meant to be the Ghost of Christmas Past?"

"Sorry, guv, you've been reading too much Dickens! Nah, we had to change the title. Ghost was too religious-sounding so they made it more secular. This means we can visit anyone from any denomination without discrimination now." Sherlock caught himself nodding and frowned. 

"So, I take it we're going to evaluate my previous experiences, then." 

"That's the general idea. Got any you fancy going to see?" 

"You mean you haven't already planned out which ones?"

"Well, again, we used to but it took a lot of planning and the union said that we shouldn't be responsible for that aspect. We're just the facilitators. Top brass wouldn't fork out for an administration department so it's up to you now." 

"Surely that's affected your effectiveness though. I mean, I could just choose happy memories and what would I learn from that?"

"Yeah, good point. Got any?" Archie looked at Sherlock questioningly as the older man wracked his brain for any stand-out moments. 

"Well, there was that beheading a few years ago. That was quite memorable."

"Cool! Got any pictures?" Sherlock smiled and grabbed his laptop. After a few moments of looking at the gory images which the young lad found incredibly interesting, they settled once again in front of the fire. 

"Anything else? Anywhere we can visit?" Sherlock thought long and hard once again. "Hang on a second." The lad held up a hand and pressed the fingers of his other hand to his temple. "Right, just got a message from your uncle. He's got some ideas. It's always helpful when there's a member of the family around for ideas. Ready to go?"

"Go? Go where?"

"To see where your hatred for Christmas started." The young lad stood and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and before he knew it, they were surrounded by snow and standing in the woodland just behind his parent's house. 

"I know this place. I used to play out here all the time." Just then, a small, red, bundle of fur came bounding around the corner of the house with a small boy with wild, curling hair, following in its wake. "Redbeard." Sherlock muttered as he watched the very young version of himself chasing after his beloved dog. 

"You did know how to have fun once, then." The urchin sat on one of the benches in the garden, no worry about the snow or that he was wearing shorts in the middle of winter. 

"This was the year when I asked for a friend in my letter to Santa. I didn't have any, you see. I had started school in September and no one would talk to me. Called me a freak. Made fun of my hair. So I requested someone to play with and I was listened to. Redbeard was my best friend." Sherlock continued to stand and watch as his younger self played with the puppy. 

"You had a few Christmases with this little chap, didn't you?" 

"Yes. I can't think of any time when I was happier than when I had Redbeard. We did everything together." The scene faded and was replaced by the same woodland, only the snow had gone. The winter sunlight replaced by gloom and rain. Sherlock recognised it at once and immediately looked at Archie, begging him to not show him this particular Christmas. 

The boy that walked around the corner on this day was a few years older. He still had the unruly mop of curls but there was no joyous smile. No happy laughter. No enthusiasm in his step. Archie and the older Sherlock stood and watched as the young boy went to sit on a fallen log nearby. He had a red collar in his hands and was stroking it, lovingly, as the tears ran unchecked down his face. A few minutes passed before the boy was joined by his older brother, Mycroft. Young Sherlock squeezed up along the log to allow his brother to fit alongside. 

"I am sorry, William. I know he meant a lot to you." The young Sherlock sniffed and angrily wiped away his tears. 

"What would you know. You don't care about anything."

"That's not true. I can a great deal about you. And Mummy and Daddy." Mycroft paused to allow his younger brother to recover slightly. "It hurts to lose people or things you care about, doesn't it?" The boy nodded and stroked the collar once again. "How would you like to never hurt like this again?" Young Sherlock looked at his older brother, questioningly. "I can show you how and your heart will never ache like this again." The brothers looked at each other for a second before the younger one nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Good. We'll start tomorrow. I'll show you how to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Feeling."

"Come on, let's go." The older Sherlock felt Archie tugging on his arm and he followed the lad as they left the two brothers sitting on the log in the garden. 

\--

"Where are we going now?" Sherlock was still reeling from the remembrance of that Christmas when he had lost his best friend. Cancer had ended it for the beautiful, red-haired pup that had been his constant companion. He recalled the day his father had taken the dog to the vet only to return on his own, carrying the collar that Sherlock still kept in a box under his bed. 

"To another Christmas when you're a bit older. Another time and another place but one that had a huge impact on making you who you are now."

The light reappeared and they were stood in the common room of the Halls he lived in whilst at Cambridge. Sherlock had gone to study for his undergraduate degree earlier than most and earned his MChem by the age of eighteen. This hall was the one he used when he was starting to study for a PhD in Forensic Chemistry and at once he knew what this Christmas would show. And where it would all lead. 

"No, I don't want to see this." He stopped walking, ignoring the surprisingly strong grip that the young urchin maintained on his hand. 

"Well, I've been told by my line manager that it's important. Especially selected by your uncle so I have to show it to you. More than my job's worth to miss it out of the tour." Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, allowing himself to be pulled along. "Let's stand just here and if we look over there, we should be able to see what's important about this year." 

Right enough, a moment later, a lanky teen with the by now very familiar mop of hair came charging through the door carrying a stack of textbooks. He quite clearly wasn't looking where he was going and, even though he knew what to expect, Sherlock still jumped when the inevitable happened. The younger Sherlock crashed headlong into the boy walking in the opposite direction and both ended up on the floor, books and leaves of paper flying and landing everywhere. 

"I'm sorry!" said the stranger.

"Can't you look where you're going?" said Sherlock at the same time causing both young men to look at each other and share a shy smile. 

"You're Sherlock." The curly-haired boy nodded and looked at the stranger suspiciously. "I'm Victor. I'm an undergrad. You help out in my labs once a week." Sherlock nodded and relaxed when he finally placed the other in the right context for recognition. 

"Right, yes. Of course." 

"I hear you're a bit of a genius." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the word 'bit'. "Okay, a real, bonafide genius. My tutor can't stop going on about how you aced your BSc and MChem in no time and how you're going to revolutionise forensics." Sherlock blushed lightly causing Victor to chuckle. 

"Well, that's if they let me research what I want to research. Every idea I put forward they argue it's too expensive or too dangerous or not ethical." Victor laughed again.

"Why don't you tell me all about it? Over a coffee? It's the least I could do after nearly knocking you into next year." Sherlock thought about it as he picked up the last of the fallen books and nodded. They walked off together and out of sight. 

"Victor looks like he might have been good for you if he'd stuck around." The older Sherlock nodded, a small, fond, smile on his lips as he remembered his first human friend. His first boyfriend as it had turned out. 

"I pushed him away. Made it impossible for him to stay."

"I know." 

And with that, they were transported to another room, this time with no light coming through the thick curtains and the thick fug of smoke and drugs hanging in the air. The younger Sherlock was laying on the bed, barely moving. The remnants of a joint in the ashtray at the side of the bed and white residue leftover on a mirror on the desk which once held his PhD thesis. Now, it held nothing of value academically. They stood in a corner, watching the scene unfold as Victor opened the door and at once started coughing. 

"Christ, Sherlock! How can you even breathe in here?" 

"Breathing is boring." He didn't move as Victor walked over to open all the curtains before throwing open a window to allow some fresh air to enter. He started to collect the rubbish that was laying about in a bin before turning to catch sight of a syringe on the desk. He stopped moving at once.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" The man on the bed didn't move, didn't even open his eyes. 

"Why is there a syringe on the desk?" 

"T'sfor an experiment." 

"Right." Victor swallowed thickly. "What kind of experiment?"

"Ya know, science and stuff." 

The older Sherlock watched Victor carefully having not taken much notice at the time. He saw the tears as they formed in the man's eyes, watched as they tumbled over silently down those beautiful cheeks. Watched those lips that he had loved to kiss press into thin lines as they attempted to stop the sob that was desperate to break out from making a sound. His heart ached to know just what pain he had caused his friend, his lover, with his actions. 

"Sherlock. This can't go on. I can't do this anymore." 

"Do what? Fuck'sake, Vic. I've had a spliff and some coke! That's it!" Victor nodded, accepting his decision even though it was the most painful thing he had ever had to do. He moved to sit next to Sherlock on the bed, careful to not touch no matter how desperately he wanted to reach out and drag him away from all this nonsense.

"Sherlock, this has to stop."

"You know it's just to help me think! I can't concentrate without it. I can stop when I finish my thesis." 

"And when will that be? Three years and you're nowhere near. You haven't been on campus for months, your tutors have written you off, you haven't even got any books or papers in here at all!" 

"What are you? My mother? Relax, Vic!"

"Tell me, please, have you started injecting yourself?" Sherlock sat up looking at the worried face of his boyfriend. 

"No. I haven't." Victor breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Good. And will you promise that you won't ever inject drugs?"

"Victor..."

"No, please, Sherlock, darling, if you love me, will you please promise to never inject yourself with drugs." Sherlock bit his lip and stood. 

"You've never supported me." 

"What?"

"In my research! You've always been jealous that I had a degree before you had O-levels!"

"Sherlock!" Victor stood and Sherlock marched over to him, face-to-face, his breathing heavy and angry. 

"Admit it!" Victor just stared at Sherlock with an open mouth. 

"I'm done, Sherlock. I'm done. I can't stand to watch you destroy yourself any longer. I love you too much for that."

"Oh yeah, right. You love me so you're leaving me. I get it." 

"Well can you honestly say you love me?"

"Of course I can!"

"Well prove it, throw all these bloody drugs away and promise me that you will never inject anything."

"Why should I have to prove it? Just believe me!" Victor barked out a harsh laugh and turned away. 

"I don't even think you know what love is." Victor spat out the words and turned away to hide his tears, his anger receding rapidly to be replaced by nothing but an empty sorrow. "Last Christmas, I thought I could see our future. Living together, hopefully getting married if it ever became legal. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And now you've thrown it all away. For drugs!" He gathered up his coat and a few of his things before heading to the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope you find the one who can set you on the right path eventually. I'm just sorry it wasn't me." And he left, walking out of Sherlock's life forever. 

Archie looked at the older Sherlock and reached for his hand when he saw the tears running freely down the older man's face. The scene faded to one that was familiar in its frequency rather than location. A doss house. Junkies all over the floor, some on mattresses, some on furniture. Some were awake. Some were shooting up. Some were passed out. Some were likely dead. Nothing needed to be said when they watched the taller man in the suit walk through the room, careful not to step on any of the inhabitants, to a mattress at the far end of the room. 

The familiar curly hair was matted and stuck to the pale forehead with sweat and grease. His pale arm stretched out, a rubber tourniquet still loosely tied, a used syringe in his hand. They watched as Mycroft Holmes bundled his brother into a blanket and carried him out of the room for the third Christmas on the bounce. He'd spend a few weeks in rehab, would get out for good behaviour and walk straight to the nearest dealer for a fix. 

Sherlock could feel the phantom sensations in his arms at the needle entered the skin and shuddered as he fought against the ever-present threat of relapse. He would never be cured but he would fight for his sobriety. Of that he was sure. 

"Come on, Sherlock. It's time to go home." Archie took the older man's hand and once again the lights faded as they returned to Baker Street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter broke my heart to write so I apologise to anybody now having a little weep.
> 
> It will get better. Honest. Eventually. I think.


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Present

Sherlock sat on his bed at Baker street, still feeling the heart-wrenching loss of Redbeard, Victor and to a large extent, his innocence. It hurt to remember those events. They had been locked away in the lower levels of his mind palace for years. Even the good memories were kept under lock and key for the bad ones inevitably followed. He wasn't sure what the visitation was meant to achieve but it had definitely made him think about how those events might have led him to become who he was today. He was no longer an active drug-user but who really knew for how long? You never truly recovered, he knew that. He could still feel the pull when he was at this most vulnerable and right now, it was calling his name quite insistently. 

It was after one in the morning and by this point, Sherlock didn't need any convincing that there would indeed be another visitor at two. No time to go and find a dealer and even they had families they wanted to spend time. Anyway, having been reminded of that last scene, he didn't really want to be dragged out of another drug den on Christmas Day by his brother. His heart ached at the thought of what he had put Mycroft through over the years. As much as his brother was an overbearing git, he had always looked out for him and Sherlock supposed he should be grateful. Maybe he would give his brother a call in the morning. Wish him a merry Christmas or whatever it was you said to people on the 25th of December. 

He half wished that the ghosts or consultants or whatever they were calling themselves these days would have kept to the one an hour schedule. There was too much time in-between to analyse what he had just been shown. The heartbroken expression on Victor's face kept haunting him. It was a dimension of that situation he hadn't cared or even been able to observe at the time. Now though, now he could read everything that was abhorrent in that scene and he was disgusted with himself. Had he loved Victor back then? He still wasn't sure. He had enjoyed being with him, certainly in the beginning, when it was all new experiences and first romances. But if he had cared for Victor, truly, wouldn't he have given up the drugs in a heartbeat? John had asked him to stop smoking once and he had. Pretty much any way. 

Before he could go any further with that thought, the room was filled with a greenish light and the image of a short, portly man in a tatty red tailcoat appeared before him. Sherlock blinked in amazement as the spectre turned to him and grinned, several teeth were missing and well as a considerable amount of hair at the front.

"Sherlock 'Olmes?" Sherlock nodded, still reeling at the unexpected appearance of his next visitor. "Shinwell Johnson, at your service." The man bowed low and grinned once again as he straightened up. "You can call me Porky though." 

"Right. I take it you're here to show me Christmas as it is now. Today, in fact." 

"Blimey! They said you were a genius! Indeed we are. I am the Present Day Festivities Advisor. I'm 'ere to show you what u're missin' out on." He laughed at the thought while Sherlock just continued to look bemused. "So, ye've been shown some bits of what has been, let's 'ave a look at what's goin' on today, then. Ready?" Sherlock took a deep breath, stood and walked over to Johnson, hoping that this would at least be a bit easier going than the previous set of visions. 

They materialised in the garden that was so familiar from the last visitation. It was that of his parent's house, where Mycroft, Mummy and Daddy were all spending the festive season. It was a cute little cottage painted pink with a thatched roof. Sherlock did have some fond memories of the place but as always, they were locked away lest they allow all the bad ones to escape too.

"Yer parents and yer brother. Nice family?" Johnson looked at him with a smile.

"I could have done worse, I suppose." And yes, he could. They had showered him with affection and love all his life and all he had done was repel it, unwanted as any form of sentiment was. 

"Shall we have a look inside? Something smells good." Sherlock sniffed the air and smiled as he realised his mother had cooked one of her famous roasts with all the trimmings. He hadn't been a fan of food since his days as an addict. It has wreaked havoc on his metabolism and to this day, couldn't stomach more than a few mouthfuls of food at a time. Unless it was sweet things. Then he could manage a bit more. But the smell right now made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. 

The smell was even better once they were inside and the food was all but prepared and ready to be eaten on the rustic dining table. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth and the cottage was decorated with branches of holly and ivy. A large, real, Christmas tree stood in the corner. What it lacked in height due to the low, beamed ceilings, it made up for in width and fullness. It was a beautiful place to spend the festive season. 

"I do worry about, Sherlock. Why isn't he here, Myc?"

"It's Mycroft, mother." She looked at him in fond remonstrance and awaited the answer to her actual question. "He's fine. I've put extra surveillance in the flat and I have the best people monitoring him for any suspicious activity." Sherlock grit his teeth upon hearing, the planned phone call in the morning quickly being dashed off his to-do list. 

"Oh Myc! You shouldn't spy on your brother! He has to have some privacy, he's a grown man." Sherlock thanked his mother silently for backing him up. "And besides, he's living with someone, isn't he? You might catch an eyeful of something you wouldn't like if you keep spying on him." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"More likely I'd find him and John arguing over who's going to purchase groceries. And that is why I pay people to keep an eye on him. Well, the taxpayers do anyway." 

"You still haven't answered my question. Why isn't he here? Hasn't John gone away too?"

"Yes, to his sister, Harriet's. Mrs Hudson is absent also. I did offer more than once for him to accompany me on this visit. He may have provided a reason for the decline but I must admit, I had stopped listening by that point." Mummy swatted her eldest on the arm with a napkin and looked at him pointedly. 

"Sherlock always used to love Christmas. He'd play carols on his violin and deduce the jokes in the crackers. He was such a joyful boy. He was never the same after Redbeard." She looked sad as she turned away to hand a bowl of sprouts to Daddy Holmes. Mycroft also turned away, a look of guilt on his features that no one would have spotted had it not been for Sherlock and Porky watching him from the sidelines. 

They stood in silence as they observed the scene in front of them. Sherlock's parents were bickering, lovingly as they always had, Mycroft rolled his eyes at their nonsense but Sherlock could see he was enjoying himself for a change. There was a place set for him as there always had been, every year. A place he had yet to fill since the year he forced Victor out of his life. 

"Wanna stay a bit longer?" Porky looked up at the taller man beside him.

"No. I think I've seen enough here." He took a deep breath to try and quell the almost overwhelming feeling of sadness and longing he felt. If he could, we would appear instantly, sit in the chair set for him and enjoy being with his family. After everything he had put them through over the years, that they would still want him there and still care about him was a testament to their love. He vowed to try better in the future to spend more time with them, even if it was just in short bursts. Little and often maybe. Yes, that would do nicely. 

He followed Porky as they exited the house and the garden disappeared to be replaced by a small row of terrace houses. It wasn't an affluent street but Christmas decorations and lights were present in every window and garden creating a festive, cheerful atmosphere.

"Ere we are." Porky walked straight through the front door of number thirty and up the steps to the first floor flat. It was tiny and cramped but Christmas pop music was playing loudly and the smell of a roast dinner permeated the air. Sherlock was seriously starting to feel hungry now having only eaten two mince pies the day before. 

"John?" A short, sandy-haired woman in her late-forties walked out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of roast potatoes. Sherlock deduced that this must be Harry, John's older sister. She looked well, better than the last time he had seen her. He had followed John once as he went to visit following her release from rehab, again. She had looked gaunt and pale, sunken-eyed and far too thin for her frame. Maybe she was taking it seriously this time. A taller, brunette followed behind her and John was the last to leave the kitchen.

"Yeah?" 

"Can you grab those glasses down from the cabinet? I can't reach." Harry smirked at the woman next to her, who simply shook her head in response.

"Don't worry, John, Harry's just being a smart-arse again." John had barely noticed, checking his phone for what was obviously the hundredth time that day. 

"John!" Harry snapped. 

"What?" Her brother snapped back. 

"Will you put that bloody phone away! He's not going to text you back, he's not going to suddenly change his mind and he's not going to start behaving like a human being just 'cause it's Christmas!" She slammed the dish down onto the table and sat down with a huff of annoyance. 

"Why would you think I'm wondering about Sherlock?" 

"'Cause he's all you ever think and talk about. Sherlock this, Sherlock that. If he's so bloody marvellous, why aren't you spending today with him? Why did you suddenly go from being in a relationship with the boring teacher to being single? Again." 

"Harry." The taller woman put the glasses onto the table and shot her a look warning her to stop before things got out of hand. 

"What? Can't I care about the fact that my baby brother is put in harm's way by that freak and yet he won't even spend a day with his sister without constantly checking his bloody phone? I'm his family. What's Sherlock to him?" John stood abruptly, knocking the table, causing the glasses to fall over with a clang. 

"Do _not_ call him that." His voice was quiet yet menacing, a thunderous expression, clenched fists leaning on the table.

"She didn't mean it, John. Just calm down, yeah?"

"Don't tell me what I do and do not mean, Clara! I meant every word!" Harry stood too, the siblings glaring at each other across the dinner table. "What is he to you, John? And don't just say flatmate, 'cause I don't believe you." Sherlock watched as all the anger suddenly drained out of John and he slumped down onto the chair. Harry looked at Clara in confusion and concern. "Johnny?"

John took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock couldn't stop himself, he felt compelled to be near his friend even though he was merely an observer in this scene. He walked across the room, paying no mind to the furniture, and reached out to lay a hand on John's shoulder, his name on his lips. 

"I don't know, Harry. I don't know what he is to me." Sherlock's hand stopped and hovered not quite touching lest he disturb the scene, waiting to see where the conversation would go.

"But you're more than just friends, yeah?" Harry had also resumed her seat, Clara's hand in hers and resting on the dining table. 

"I dunno. I mean, he's the best friend I've ever had. He saved me when I got invalided home. All I wanted to do was end it, life had no meaning and then he was there and he took over everything." He took his hands away from his face and looked at his sister, begging her to understand what he was saying and make sense of the tumultuous thoughts in his head. "He takes up all the thoughts in my head and is the one person in the world I want to spend all my time with." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

Sherlock let his hand drop to his side, his gaze never leaving the man before him. Affection. That's what was making his heart hurt at John's words. A deep, raw ache in his chest that he had felt before but only with John. It happened when John was away or his life was in danger. He'd felt it deep within him at the Pool, first at the thought of his betrayal and then at the imminent danger John was in. But weren't sociopaths not meant to feel this way? He'd been training himself to switch off these emotions for decades, yet here they were, clouding his mind, making him question his entire way of thinking.

"I think he means a lot more to you than just being a friend, John," Clara spoke softly

"But I'm not gay!" John's eyes shot open and Sherlock took a step backwards as if struck. It was an often-heard statement when people drew their own conclusions about their relationship and every time, John would correct them and get annoyed when Sherlock didn't. He turned to Porky, about the make the request to leave, not wanting to hear any more of this conversation when something Harry said made him stop in his tracks.

"Not entirely straight, though. I remember Ben, from the rugby team at school. I remember seeing you behind the kit shed one afternoon." Sherlock turned back to face his friend, observing the flush that deepened red at this reminder of a past he had kept very quiet about. "Let me ask you a couple of questions, John. Do you find men and women attractive? Sexually?" 

"You know the answer to that."

"Yes, but do you?" John looked at his sister thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. 

"Yeah. I do."

"And have you ever felt as strongly about a woman as you do about Sherlock?" 

Sherlock desperately wanted to hear John's answer but as the man himself opened his lips to speak, Porky took Sherlock's arm and the room disappeared around them. 

"No! Take me back! Please, I need to know what he says." Sherlock pleaded with Porky, begging him to return but the spirit merely smiled and shook his head. 

"Ye've seen enough for you to make yer own mind up on that score. There's one more place I want to visit and my time is runnin' short so we need to 'urry." As they moved towards their final place, Sherlock looked back, aching to see John's face one more time.

A moment later, they were standing in another sitting room, this time with a view of the beach in Brighton. Sherlock knew at once who they would find there and right enough, Mrs Hudson and a slightly younger woman who looked almost the same entered the room carrying cups of tea and biscuits. They sat in armchairs overlooking the beach and sipped their tea whilst talking of random things. Sherlock had almost lost interest when something finally caught his attention. 

"How are those boys of yours doing? Has he stopped shooting the walls yet?" Mrs Hudson laughed. 

"No more shots have been fired recently but he will keep stabbing the bills into the mantelpiece. There was a Cluedo board sticking out of the wall when I left."

"Should he be allowed to walk around in public when he likes shooting and stabbing things?"

"Oh! He wouldn't shoot or stab anyone who didn't deserve it. He's very good like that. And John keeps him in check. I think he's hidden the gun or at least the bullets anyway." Mrs Hudson's sister looked on with an expression of confusion mixed with concern. 

"You always did enjoy the exciting life, Martha." They giggled and took another sip of tea. 

"I do wish they would just get on with it, though?"

"Get on with what?" Mrs Hudson looked at her sister and mouthed the word 'SEX' at her. Sherlock saw and blushed, looking away from her face as she smiled with glee.

"Oh! Still? Nothing yet?" 

"Nope. I thought they were getting close with, you know, the whole being strapped into semtex and nearly dying but no. Still nothing." She took a bite of her biscuit, looking thoughtful. "I blame that woman. The one who drugged Sherlock and installed that ridiculous message tone on his phone. Honestly, it's lewd!" Another nibble. "Every time he gets a message from her, it moans in a very inappropriate way. Makes me blush, honestly. And John! Well, he can barely control his jealousy. He's counted them you know. Each message. Sometimes, it's several times in an hour. The phone just moans and moans whilst they're sitting there watching the news. Poor, John. Heaven knows what he thinks about it all." 

"She sounds like a harlot."

"No dear, she's a dominatrix. But she died the other night. Or so everyone believes anyway so maybe it will all be over soon."

"Hopefully." Synchronised tea-drinking. 

"I do hope they decide soon. I've never been to a gay wedding." Mrs Hudson tittered in excitement at the thought. 

"I don't think they're that different from non-gay weddings, dear." 

"No, but think of all the soldier friends that John will invite. All in uniform." 

"Oh yes!" As dreamy looks overtook their expressions, they too faded from view as Porky once again took Sherlock's arm and led him away. 

The shorter man looked up at the taller one, trying to read the expression and thoughts of the man before him. He looked like the answers to a thousand questions had been answered yet more had reared up in their place. He looked confused and angry at the confusion yet also like he was starting to form a plan. Porky was sure that tonight's visits were going to be successful but the final showdown was always a bit difficult to judge. He'd been sure of success before when handing over to part three. Sometimes, unpredictable things could happen when seeing the future. If only they could get out of...too late. He Porky sensed that time had run away with him again and that a call to head-office was now out of the question. 

Slowly, Sherlock became aware of the spirit again and focused on him. 

"My time is at an end, Mister 'Olmes. Ye've 'ad a lot of insight there and I know ye'll want to think it through but ye have to see the next spirit now. We've run over a bit but we're just in time. Here he is." Porky nodded over Sherlock's shoulder so the taller man turned around straight into the next apparition. Everything went black. 


End file.
